


Third Patrol

by Ewebie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third Patrol of the day and after a long night, Captain John Watson is tired...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Patrol

**Author's Note:**

> Pom had asked for some Army John ficlit... I started writing and ended up with this short. I hadn't intended for this exact outcome, but these things tend to take on their own life. Interestingly, I managed to produce my own new Head Canon... Which is not what I'd planned. I like it too much to not integrate it. Enjoy.  
> ~ ewebie

It was the third patrol of the day and Captain Watson was tired. He wet his lips with his tongue and sighed heavily through his nose before turning to squint out the window of the Humvee.  ‘Oh look, more rocks,’ he thought bitterly.

It was late August and the summer weather had yet to turn to anything resembling autumn, but he knew well that the winter season would be cold and snowy and brutal. The thought brought little solace as the sweat trickled down his temples and soaked along his collar. Sandwiched in the back of the vehicle with two other soldiers, the interior smelled of heat and sweat and metal and the slightest whiff of blood. How he could sit there and feel damp in this dry place was a mystery. God, he needed a nap.

He’d pulled a double shift in the CSH that had him pulling small bits of shrapnel out of a young lieutenant’s bowel. But not before one of his colleagues had finished the job the landmine had started on the poor sod’s left leg. ‘Only way to lose 15 pounds in a day,’ he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry, Captain?”

Watson glanced to his left; he hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud. “Nothing, Officer,” he muttered. Jesus, they were getting younger every time. That kid only looked to be twelve. Babies holding machine guns.

The nearby explosion rocked the Humvee, and Watson was at full attention, any evidence of fatigue gone in a quick pulse of adrenaline. The vehicle braked sharply as the concussive bark of a nearby SA80 rattled loudly. Before they’d come to a complete stop, the doors were open and everyone piled out, rifles drawn, covering each other, covering the vehicle, covering the open space and desperately looking for the source of attack.

The Humvee immediately in front of theirs was clearly taking fire. Four of the occupants had made it to cover, two behind the Humvee, two behind a stone wall about ten yards away. Coming out of the middle SUV, his small squad was trapped in the center of the line of three. No one liked to be pinned down next to a vehicle; vehicles exploded. Watson crouched at the rear wheel base, awaiting instructions from his lieutenant colonel; what was his name? Peters?

“Cover! Go! Go! Go!”

He didn’t look to see where the order came from, he just ran. Someone fired continuous suppressive fire and Watson didn’t think he took a breath until his back hit the stone wall. It was difficult to see as the dust kicked up in the thick air, but John could feel the bullets striking the wall. The impact shuddered down his spine and forced puffs of breath from his lungs.

He pressed his eyes shut for a second, only a second, sucked in a deep breath, and rolled up onto one knee, scanning the horizon for targets. Three became immediately apparent, and he could only fire off three rounds before ducking back down under cover. When the onslaught paused, he was back up, emptying a clip into the surrounding landscape as the remainder of the squad reached the wall.

“Major, call it in!”

“Lieutenant, you and you, forward line!”

Orders were barked out left and right and Watson listened and followed what was his to follow, which apparently was to remain dangerously close to explosive vehicles while crouched behind a very low wall. Gunfire was exchanged again, and an eerie silence descended.

“Captain?”

Watson scrunched up against the wall, pulling down on his vest where it encroached upon his chin. “Sir!” he barked back.

The scream of airborne propellant ripped through the air and instinct took over. In a heartbeat, the surroundings shattered. John curled up into the smallest ball he could manage, tucking up against the wall as the first Humvee in the line exploded in fire and shrapnel and sound. The blast of hot air singed the back of his neck before he could get his arms up to cover the sensitive skin, and soot and fire and rubble rained down on the small squad.

Ears ringing, lungs burning, Watson rolled, squinting at the hollowed out frame of the Humvee. The young officer that had been next to him broke into his line of vision, arms flailing, fatigues on fire, mouth open in a scream that John couldn’t hear over the after effects of the explosion. He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped his gun and launched himself at the officer, tackling him to the ground, rolling in the dirt and sand, smothering the flames as quickly as he could.

One of the other officers helped drag the poor man back to the shelter of the wall, so Watson could look after him. But gazing down at the face, hair singed, right cheek blistered and charred, John swallowed hard. It wasn’t the burns. It was the blood now coating his hands, his arms, the front of his vest. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Med Kit! I need my Med Kit!”

He searched quickly, finding the two, no three, no… Shit, fuck, damn. Five. There were five. Long lacerations. Deep lacerations. Gut. Arm. Shin. Rib cage… Groin. A pulse of blood spurted from the wound in the groin in a steady rhythm. Fuck! Watson clamped a hand over it, digging in his vest for the sachet of WoundSeal. Blood continued to seep between his fingers as he stuffed the wound, turning up to the man’s rib cage.

“God Damnit! Where the fucking fuck is my Med Kit?!”

Watson could hear, faintly, barely over the ringing and renewed gunfire, a sucking sound, a wheezing sound. It was painful and gut-wrenchingly wrong. With every breath the man took, a fine mist of red spray steamed from the laceration. Lung. Blood in the lung. This was battlefield triage. There was no time for sterile. John exposed the skin around the wound and flattened the plastic pack from the WoundSeal against the chest and taped down three sides. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn’t. Gut.

John was familiar with a great many visceral reactions, but the sight of exposed bowel was one he rarely could stomach without breaking into a cold sweat. Gloves. He had gloves somewhere, didn’t he? Fuck it; he was covered in blood anyway. “What the ever-loving-”

He didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. Watson blinked up at the clear blue sky from flat on his back. Had someone knocked him down? There was no one next to him. His left arm was numb… numb and tingling… Searing! Holy Fuck! He screamed as the pain engulfed the left side of his body, lancing from his fingertips, across his chest, down his side. The damp warmth spread from his shoulder, leaking into his back and across the front of his vest.

“Captain?!” Another one of the lieutenants stared down at him in horror.

Watson saw the hands come together, palms down and press into his shoulder. The scream that ripped through his throat was barely human.

 

John nearly ripped his sheet in two as he startled awake. His fists clenched at the white material twisting between his hands as he sat bolt upright, the blood rushing in his ears nearly deafening over the silence around him. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and held it as he swallowed over the dry lump in his throat. His body shook as he let the air out and continued to take three, four calming breaths. The lines on his face drew together as if clenching every muscle of expression he had would rid him of the memories. Then he released the sheet, his right hand relaxing more easily than the left.

He rubbed his right palm heavily over his face, scrubbing the sleep and sweat and anguish away. His face relaxed, his eyes blinking open and a bit of relief crept into his expression as he saw clean, bloodless hands. He licked his lips and glanced around the room, his ears perking at the familiar sound of careful, near weightless footfalls the floor below. Maybe there was a warning of plucked strings first, but he didn’t care; violin music drifted up from the sitting room. A wry half smile crossed his face and he pushed up from the bed. A nice morning cup of tea, he thought heading for the stairs. He didn’t even feel the motion of opening and closing his left hand, but it had stopped before he reached the landing.

“G’morning, Sherlock.”


End file.
